And The Road Goes On, Seeming Ever Longer
by Luinramwen
Summary: It's not going to be longer than a year before the dikes begin to crumble. Then. A land gone, a people homeless, if they can still be called a people by then. What means nationality in a world crumbled to dust? Post-apocalypse NLCan, implied char death


**Rating:** PG-15

**Disclaimer:** Do not own. Characters only bear resemblance to living counterparts or other people through extreme coincidence. Characters' views do not represent my own.

**Warnings:** Basically... end of the world. Implications of character death.

**Author's Note:** Arrrgh why cannot I write serious fic that doesn't have stupid heartbreak and sap. FML.

No I was not channelling Cormac McCarthy to even the smallest degree. Absolutely not.

If you know the song I listened to on loop while writing this, then... hey, you're pretty cool. What? You were expecting prizes?

* * *

The sky is streaked soot and burning steel, and Canada cannot bear to look out the window any longer, and pulls the blinds to. In the corner, Netherlands crouches, coaxing a lamp to life. The room flickers with a pale yellow glow.

"You think we're safe here for tonight?" he says, voice hoarse. He flops to the floor beside the lit lamp, drawing his legs into a ragged circle, and passes a hand over his eyes. The motion only smears the dust with his sweat, and Canada remembers a time when everything was scrubbed and gleaming, clean unbroken tile, swept stone, polished wood, and it makes him feel sick. The floor of this place is a mess, old scattered newspaper and cardboard, water-mottled and warped, the paint bubbling and peeling from the walls in layers, revealing colours and years long forgotten. At least there is nothing worse.

"I hope so." Canada slides down the wall beside him, tugging his hair out of his eyes, switching his glasses off his face and searching for a single clean spot on his shirt on which to clean them. Netherlands' strained smile is blurred as he takes the glasses from him, and pulls a still-white strip of cloth from his pocket, and cleans them for him.

"Thanks," Canada mutters, slipping them back on his face.

"Water?" He's pulled out the canteen; Canada can hear how it sloshes, light and high.

"No thanks. How are we for food?"

"Even lower." The grey of Netherlands' eyes is unreadable, solid, calm.

"Shit."

"Yeah." Closes his eyes. "I mean, I can make a nutritious meal out of a few grubs and some boot leather - got plenty of practice back in '44 - but even I can only stretch it so far."

"I know. It's OK. We'll find something soon."

"We better." Touches Canada's face. His eyes are open again, and Canada can see the hairline cracks running through his control, the splashes of grief still lingering, stagnating. He knows, because he also feels it in himself. He's not sure if being so far from home dulls the pain, or makes it worse. "You're really pale."

"I'm fine."

His eyebrow flicks up, but he says nothing, just settles in beside him, arm draped over his shoulders, dragging him close. It's good to feel his warmth. Canada sighs, and leans into him.

"Can I see the map?"

Netherlands pulls the all-important paper out of his pocket, and smoothes it across his thigh. "I don't even know where we are anymore," he admits with a laugh that tries too hard to be careless.

"We haven't crossed the border yet," Canada says, using his cleanest hand to trace their path across the map. "See that crook in the road? We cut across country there this morning. Passed by those hills marked there after our break. I'd say we're another day's travel at least from the border. And then..."

"They're alive," Netherlands says, and leans back against the wall. His fingers dig into Canada's left arm. "They're alive, Canada. Wouldn't I know if they weren't?"

"Yeah, probably," Canada says, and has to turn away and swallow hard because he's thinking of America, the last time he saw him, and he'd been withdrawing even then, closing in, retracting, shrivelling, growing reticent...

And is he ...? Canada doesn't know. Maybe the ocean is too wide, but he'd think a pain like that would make itself felt across the deepest of waters.

Little hands clasping, sky blue on dusk, the high sweet voices of children lisping words far older than either. Always linked, like _so_ - the comfort and the _aggravation_ - the bickering - resentment - surging of the protective instinct - and if -?

"They're alive," Netherlands says again, and Canada is grateful for the subtle shift in his tone.

"Yeah," he says again. "We'll see Belgium soon, for sure. She's probably looking for you too."

"Yeah."

"If the hills flatten out, we'll cut cross-country again. Just keep an eye out."

"Like there's anything that could really happen to us."

"You don't know that," Canada says flatly. "Not any more."

"Get some sleep." Netherlands folds the map back up. "We need to make sure those thieves don't attack us in the night. I'll watch first."

It's not worth the argument. Canada bunches up his pack and wraps his coat around him, wincing as the paper crinkles and slides underneath him as he lies down. In front of his eyes, a black headline, in Dutch of course, so he can't really read it, but he catches the word for _evacuation_, the word for _ships_. The word meaning _temporary._

Where did they think they were going? Where else could they go, who else would take them, now? Did they think that one day they could come back? It's not going to be any longer than a year before the dikes begin to crumble. Then what? A land gone, a people homeless, if they could still even be called a people by that point. And then.

_What means nationality in a world crumbled to dust?_

The coat isn't thick enough to keep out that cold.

It's uncomfortable to sleep on memories of another time, but somehow Canada manages.

* * *

The weak grey light of morning slips apologetically through the drawn moth-eaten curtains, and Canada stands and stretches, brain cotton-thick and unwilling. His muscles protest at the thought of another day like the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. He thinks it's been maybe three weeks. He thinks it might be a Tuesday, too, however much that's worth.

When he was a kid he could go for months at a time, through trackless forest and across barren prairie. He feels old, which is stupid, because he's still a baby next to almost everyone else, Netherlands included.

How many are left? Have the forests once again become trackless, the prairies barren? The skies are silent as they were in the long centuries before, highways abandoned, rails overgrown, towns silent and ghostly. He can almost see them in his head. The emptiness. He can feel it in his bones, a singing of wind through tall uncut grasses, the silence of the trees, real, unbroken silence that nobody has ever known before.

No. Aches aren't important, as long as he remains. What matters is not death. Not here. Not now.

He glances down at his friend, still sleeping. Netherlands' eyelids are purple with exhaustion, his breathing slow and even. His lips are chapped and dry - not enough clean water for both of them, he knows, and if only being as good as immortal didn't also mean needing to obey the basic human needs. His scar stands out livid against his pale skin. His hair in particular has seen better days. It's almost tame, and if he didn't think the waking moment would be awkward, Canada would kneel and run his fingers through it until it begins to look normal again. It's unnatural. It's like seeing despair in his eyes, the knowledge of approaching doom. Uncanny.

Canada hesitates to wake him. But he doesn't think Netherlands will forgive him if he lets them waste a day resting when the question of whether anyone else has made it through has yet to be answered. He prods him gently with a toe, afraid in this moment to lean down and touch bare skin.

"Nnrrmmgoway," mumbles Netherlands.

"It's morning," he says. "Don't you want to be on our way?"

Netherlands sits up, running his fingers through his hair and trying half-heartedly to keep it from going everywhere. Gives up, and rummages through his pack for the food and the canteen once again. Canada knows better than to argue when Netherlands pushes the treasure of a mostly-fresh orange into his hands, and watches him until he takes a swig from the canteen as well. He's not a kid, he knows how to take care of himself. He just doesn't see why he should need to when he's not the one in greatest danger here. In the long run, who gets the most food and water won't make a microscopic speck of difference, because none of that matters if all your people are dead. But it feels like a difference, so he'll keep doing it.

They move out in silence.

* * *

"I hate this."

Canada keeps his eyes on the road, heart aching. The fields are dead around them, flattened and broken, grey and burnt brown. No bright colours along the roadside. No green in the trees lining the road. He feels watched. Not all of the houses they pass are empty. Not everyone is dead, or on the move. That at least is a sign for hope, for now. In the end, Canada knows in his heart that the more people who have survived, the more brutal things will become as the endless grey days march forward and nothing continues to grow, nothing continues to live in the fields.

"How many do you feel left?" he asks, quietly.

Netherlands does not answer for a long moment. "Maybe two hundred thousand," he says in a low voice, finally, and Canada's first thought is: _That's not too bad_, until he thinks about how many of his own he can feel, faintly because of the distance, and how it feels like panic; how cramped these people will feel in a few months' time, if they are still on these lands when their food stores begin to run low, how unwelcome they are if they left with the ships. Wonders how many other countries put their people in that same position.

He hesitates, then touches the underside of Netherlands' wrist with the tips of his fingers. Netherlands seems to understand, and opens his clenched hand so that their palms can touch, their fingers almost intertwine.

"How many of your own?"

"I miss the tulips. They should be everywhere by now - it seems wrong that they're not," Canada says. "I miss the colours."

"Me too." Penetrative sideways glance. "You didn't answer the question, Canada. How many?"

"Maybe four hundred thousand," Canada mumbles. "Mostly widespread and in rural areas."

"God," Netherlands says, bitterly. "From so many."

They both know what they were before. There's nothing else to say. The sky hangs over them like the blade of a knife.

* * *

Sometime late afternoon as the sun begins to sink, they reach the border.

"Map," Canada says, and Netherlands pulls it from his pocket again.

"There's nothing else within walking distance," he says. "Not before dark."

"Customs house it is."

There are guns warning them off the moment they are within range of the doors and windows.

"Excuse us, we're seeking refuge for the night, could you please let us share your hospitality, just for one night? We won't be in the way, we have our own food and water," Canada calls anyways, in spite of the guns. They cannot afford to quail. Just because there are guns does not mean that they are not welcome, simply that the inhabitants are cautious. As they should be.

"We don't take anyone in," comes the reply.

"We don't even have to come inside, just let us rest outside -"

"Get out. Nobody crosses here."

A shot rings out to their left. Canada strains to see how close. Another shot sends the dust up about a metre in front of their feet. They leap back, and back away slowly.

Netherlands curses as they retreat into the surrounding countryside. He's pretty sure he hears him mumbling something like, "Fuck you bastards, I'm your goddamn _country_, I can cross the border whenever the hell I like, just try and stop me..."

"We'll just cross somewhere else then," Canada says. "It's not like it being legal matters anymore."

That's an uncomfortable thought if it's taken much farther than that, and he has a feeling Netherlands knows that from the way his eyes flash briefly, and he almost opens his mouth to speak.

Though the customs house is heavily blockaded, no one patrols. Clearly they do not actually care that much about who does and does not cross the border elsewhere. They hop a fence or two, and then they are touching down on Belgian soil. Netherlands takes a deep breath.

"Feel anything?"

"She's not dead," he says. "We're still being watched."

"Good," Canada says. He wishes he could be certain.

An hour until dark, and they begin to gather wood as they go along. At last they spy a copse of trees in a dip a short distance from the road; it should provide enough shelter from the wind and hide the firelight; their bodies will just have to provide the rest.

Canada gets the fire going; Netherlands pulls out a tin of beans, which they punch holes in with the can opener and set on a rock beside the fire. Canada remembers days when beans were a side dish, a smaller part of the whole - not that long ago. How can so much go sideways in so little time?

With both coats over them after banking the fire, it's almost comfortable. It's good to feel another body against his own. Heat banked between them, his arm draped over Netherlands' waist, Netherlands tugging him in close.

It's not really a suprise when Netherlands slips his hand in under his shirt and kisses him. He knows what he wants, of course, though it's the first time he's ever tried it when they are both completely sober.

It's always been one of the things that kept their friendship safe, separating it from the sex with a wall of sobriety. But, Canada supposes, breath ragged, nothing's really safe anymore. Maybe that's why Netherlands is kissing and sucking on his collarbone so fervently. His skin is hot-cold under Canada's mouth as he responds.

Funny thing is, he still feels a little drunk, a little high, as they move short and sharp against each other in the darkness.

Funny thing is, he still feels safe.

* * *

Belgium's house is empty.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Netherlands is almost tearing his hair out with frustration.

"She took the time to lock it," Canada says. "She's not here, which only means she's left. She could be with Luxembourg. She could have gone to find France. She and Prussia could have taken off to track down more of us to the east. Belgium has a mind of her own. She's fine."

"Right, the way that you know America is fine," he says.

Canada walks stiffly into the kitchen.

"... Shit. I didn't mean it like that. Canada?"

He's studying the table when Netherlands follows him in. "... Have you found something?"

"Yeah, under her work binder."

It's been dug into the wood in regular ballpoint ink.

_Brother I've gone to find Lux and others. Follow when you can. 4/17/35._

"That's her writing," Netherlands says. It's hard to read his expression.

"See, she's fine," Canada says.

"Then we're going after her," Netherlands says decisively. "We're only a week behind her."

Canada hesitates as Netherlands goes straight to the pantry and begins ransacking it for fresh supplies. A moment or so later, Netherlands glances around the door, and lifts an eyebrow. "You gonna help or what?"

"I don't know if East is the direction I want to go," Canada mumbles.

"Why n - Oh."

"France and England are my family," he mumbles. "I need to know if."

"Fuck." Netherlands runs his fingers through his hair. "Ah, of course you do. But Belgium wants us to follow her."

"You... don't have to come with me." Canada swallows. His stomach twists. "She's your sister. You've never really been close to France or England, so... I can't expect you to come. It's OK. I'll find them, and then we'll head East. If you leave notes at each house you visit, we'll be able to catch up."

Netherlands says nothing. Canada wishes he would say something, yea or nay, anything, keeps babbling. "There might be a lot of us on the way back. If I find France, he'll want to know that Spain's all right. And England will be worried about Portugal. And since they'll be on the way one way or another, I should probably go through Switzerland and make sure he and Liech are still alive, and then we're practically in Austria, anyways -"

"That's fine," Netherlands says finally. "It's a good idea. As long as you think you'll be OK."

... So he's really not going to come. Fine, then. That's fine. It means he trusts him to take care of himself. They're both rational adults. Nothing human can harm them. There's nothing to worry about. Canada lets his spine straighten, ignores the cold in the pit of his stomach. It'll be weird travelling alone, but it's not like he's never done it before.

"I'll be perfectly fine," Canada says. "You go find your siblings. And if you're going East, would you." He stops himself, bites his lip. That's an awfully selfish request to make. It's so far. And what if. And it's too late. And. "N-Never mind, that's not... So we'll split what Belgium left behind between us, and get water from her well, and... wish each other good luck, then." He buries himself in the pantry, pulling out a few stray jars and tins of things that look like they should still be edible.

A hand on his shoulder. Canada tries not to stiffen.

"I'll do it, you know," Netherlands says. Warm lips on the nape of his neck. Canada closes his eyes against the sudden stinging in the corners. "Promise. I'll bet it's only about as far as here to Lisbon, so don't say _never mind_. She'll want to know you're alive."

"Thank you," Canada whispers, and turns around. Netherlands drapes his arms over Canada's shoulders.

"You're doing the same for me," he says. "Make sure the old bastard's still kicking, all right?"

"Yeah."

"We'll go while there's still daylight, then?"

"Maybe wait until morning," Canada says, and he catches the faintest glimpse of a smile on Netherlands' lips.

"That sounds reasonable enough."

* * *

Canada tries to pull himself out of bed, and is dragged back down by insistent arms.

"We're wasting daylight," he says, wriggling in Netherlands' octopus embrace.

"We can spare ten more minutes," Netherlands mumbles.

This is true, and if he's going to be honest with himself he really isn't looking forward to leaving Netherlands behind. It might be months - a whole year, even - before they see each other again. And if it's that long, what are the chances that this is -?

He relaxes at that, twisting until they're facing each other, and settles. Netherlands starts kissing down his jaw.

"Stop it," he says, but without much force.

"Why?"

"Tickles," Canada says, lamely. "Get off."

Lazy sly grin. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

"Oh, no, no not like - gah, is that all you ever think about?" The tail of his question is a bit of a gasp, in spite of his best intentions.

"I also think about how nice it would be if I could find the tiniest bit of weed to make the difficult moments more bearable." He hasn't stopped kissing.

"Netherlands -" Canada gives up, closes his eyes, tilts his head back to expose his throat a little more. Netherlands nuzzles him, starts working at the buttons on his shirt which, Canada decides, moving to help, was a waste of time to put back on. It might just be him but Netherlands seems more affectionate than lustful, which is frankly a little unusual, but it's not something they spend a lot of time talking about, so he'll just accept it for what it is.

"You want the truth? I'm thinking about what it's like to die."

Canada's eyes fly open. Netherlands is not looking at him, lips pressing soft kisses down his neck to his now-bared shoulder. His words are breathed hot against Canada's skin, leave him cold enough to start shivering. "You've seen it. People fled. Earth crumbling, concrete cracking. Things... fall apart. The things that hold us together... what are those worth now, Canada?"

"Don't." He doesn't feel his nails digging into Netherlands' skin, the chill running up his body, heart picking up speed. He does feel the heat in his cheeks, and buries his face, ashamed, in Netherlands' hair. "Just... don't."

"You want me running from the truth? It's real and it's happening." His fingers are twining and clenching in Canada's hair.

"I know. I know I know I know." He doesn't want to know.

"Then you know that this is -"

"I know."

"Is it that you're scared?"

"No. Yes. Oh god, how could I not be?" Canada bites his lip, hugs him closer, pressing his cheek hard against the top of his head, fingers trailing down his face. He tries to pretend that the dampness he can feel on his face is merely sweat, not what he knows it to be in his heart.

"Me too," he says, voice barely audible. "It's hard to forget."

"I can't stop thinking about it, Netherlands, I really c-can't. It's been so long since anyone - and I don't want it to be - you're my dear, dear friend and I can't picture what the world looks like, w-without -"

Mouths frantic against each other. Canada tastes salt.

"I don't want you to leave."

"I know," Netherlands murmurs against his lips. "And believe you me, Canada, I don't want to go. But we both need to know about our families. And truth be told? I don't want you to see me crumbling to pieces."

"But I -"

"No, I get that. I do. But I... hate seeing you in pain. I'd rather you didn't have to watch me deteriorate. I'd rather your last memory of me is a good one, if it has to be the last. So... so stop crying?"

He's not sure if he does, but it doesn't matter because Netherlands is _touching_ him, and he's dimly sure that they're way past their ten minutes, but that doesn't matter either, because Netherlands is right even if Canada doesn't want him to be. If they make it good, that's all that matters.

* * *

His last memory of Netherlands isn't that.

"Got everything?"

"Yes. Do you?"

"Yeah."

He looks a little healthier, now. Maybe it's just because they've both washed and scrubbed themselves clean. Maybe it's because they've had a few days to rest in relative peace. Maybe it's because he wants to see it.

"So." Netherlands shifts his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes meet Canada's steadily. "With luck, I'll see you later."

"Yes." Canada swallows. "Of course. Well. We should be on our way then."

"What, no good-bye kiss?" he teases, as Canada turns to go.

"Do you really want one?" He turns, feeling awkward. It might be the first time either of them have acknowledged that they do kiss, outside of the bedroom.

"If you're offering." He grins, that sly mischievous look that lights up his normally solemn face and transforms it. Canada has never managed to stay unaffected by that grin, so he steps forward and cups his face and kisses him, hard and deep.

"_Nice_," Netherlands says, still smiling.

"Love you," Canada mumbles, and just for a second - not even a second - Netherlands' face changes. Canada isn't even sure of what he's seeing. But it earns him another hard kiss, and a barely audible murmur in return.

And then Netherlands is shouldering his pack, and Canada is shouldering his own, and they're hugging brief and pre-emptory, and then they turn and go.

Canada doesn't know if Netherlands knows he's turned to watch him walk away. His shoulders are thrown back, head held high, face tilted up to catch the watery grey light of the sun. Canada thinks he knows what Netherlands would have looked like as a teenager at the bow of an East India ship, proud and poised and eager to take on the world.

That's his last memory of him, of many perhaps most suiting.

Then Canada faces the West and the long road ahead.

* * *

**Notes:**

_Got plenty of practice back in '44 -_ known as the Hunger Winter in the Netherlands. Winter came early and harsh at a time when food was already scarce, for several reasons including embargoes on food transport and the Allies moving the fighting into the country, ruining agricultural lands. About 18 000 died.

_"God," Netherlands says, bitterly. "From so many":_ 2009 censuses put the population of the Netherlands at approximately 16 500 000, and Canada at approximately 31 600 000.

_"I'll bet it's only about as far as here to Lisbon":_ If the scale on my handy-dandy Euro-map is correct, so is this, as the crow flies, from Brussels. Give or take a few dozen miles. More or less


End file.
